


Your Softness Ruins Me

by Anonymous



Series: Love Without You Is Death [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Nicknames, Secrets, Swordfighting, Swords & Sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:40:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23197972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Good to see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” mutters Geralt, eyes immediately falling onto Jaskier’s resting form as he enters the tent again. “Are you hungry? I think I have one of Yenn’s travel-size meals with me. I’d have to look, because I don’t remember where I put it.”The bard opens one eyes, smirks, and says, “Oh, I’m always hungry, you know that.”-----A little rain and Jaskier refuses to go any further, so they set up a tent that the bard promptly tears playing with Geralt's sword. The rain becomes cold, and they have to keep themselves entertained with only a nickname and each other.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Love Without You Is Death [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605841
Comments: 1
Kudos: 45
Collections: Anonymous





	Your Softness Ruins Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Maja (@/gayjaskier on twitter) for the nickname and cuddling prompt that finally got me out of my block, I hope this fic does them justice. Enjoy this 2000+ word fic that took me over a month to actually finish and did not give up on.

“Um, you must be insane if you think I’m going to be travelling in this weather. Not a chance in a million years, even if you won’t be dead by then,” argues Jaskier, appalled at the fact that Geralt seems to think that this is the perfect time to be continuing on their journey to Vergen. “I am tired of you making decisions for me that are absolutely not made for people who have to travel on foot! Not all of us have the money to own a steed, especially when all of the coins are being tossed to you!”

The witcher rolls his eyes and watches Jaskier drone on and on about how he deserves better, leaning against Roach, who also is tired of listening to the bard complaining. So, while he continues being overdramatic, Geralt takes the tent he’s borrowed from Yenn again off his horse’s back and starts laying it out on the flat ground nearby. He can’t believe he’s actually let Jaskier stick around this long, because all of his moaning stops him from concentrating even days at a time, but a small part of him loves him because of it, so he can’t say he didn’t know what he was in for.

Thank God for magic, because the tent sets itself up, and he’s able to haul Jaskier inside by his collar so he doesn’t freeze. “Wait here. I need to get Roach’s part ready for him before he starts on about having to get wet when you don’t.”

He takes his time, which leaves the bard to wonder what has just happened. Did he really manage to convince Geralt to stop for a bad patch of rain? Usually he has to save his pleas for a few weeks, but since he already got Geralt to stop at an inn for the night three days ago, he wasn’t expecting him to take out the tent already.

He shakes his thoughts off and removes his shirts, leaving them to dry on one of the chairs, lying down next to the fire that lit itself the moment the tent was set up. The sheepskin rug beside it is one of the most incredible things he’s ever felt, and each time he is somehow surprised by its softness and the way it feels against his bare skin. It’s like his own little piece of Heaven, something he cherishes greatly, but not more so than his family – okay, maybe on cold days like this it’s debatable.

“Good to see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” mutters Geralt, eyes immediately falling onto Jaskier’s resting form as he enters the tent again. “Are you hungry? I think I have one of Yenn’s travel-sized meals with me. I’d have to look, because I don’t remember where I put it.”

The bard opens one eyes, smirks, and says, “Oh, I’m always hungry, you know that.”

Once more, the witcher rolls his eyes, but lies down next to his lover anyway, letting him rest his luscious hazel-blond locks on his lap. They are close to each other like they are most nights, the feeling of safety and security comforting them in a way they wonder if they will ever quite understand. Geralt closes his eyes, back against one of the chairs for support, and listens to the flames cracking, having felt restless for many nights now, but not having had the time to regain his energy, not when town and villages and cities are to be saved.

“Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, good, you’re awake. I’m fucking freezing.”

The witcher raises an eyebrow and opens his eyes, follows to where Jaskier is pointing, and sees the giant tear in the cloth wall of the tent. The bard is bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking more guilty than he usually does, and the sword lying on the floor gives him away rather boldly. “Fuck, Jaskier, what did I tell you about playing with things that aren’t yours? I told you to stop pretending to be me when I’m asleep.”

“Well, it’s not my fault I thought it would be lighter than last time!” he sighs, exasperated, crossing his arms across his chest as Geralt stands up, annoyed at his recklessness. He attempts to fix the tear with what little he has at his disposal, but it doesn’t stop the cold from getting in, and Jaskier is sure to let him know, what with the way he keeps pretending to die in different ways from hypothermia.

So, of course, Geralt picks him up and puts him in bed, tucking him in properly, so that he can’t escape.

“Hey!”

“Stay put while I try and fix the fucking hole in the wall you made,” warns Geralt, eyes flashing brightly. “Don’t even think about hatching some brilliant escape plan because I will bind you to the bed with magic and I won’t touch you once for the whole night.”

Not a word escapes the bard as he watches his lover leave, flaps, well, flapping behind him. His eyes are wide open, his mind doing his best to heed Geralt’s warning, but his body is already wriggling, desperate to get free. He does not like being treated like a child even if he happens to whine like one sometimes, so he struggles as much as he can, finally getting an arm free to help him wiggle out of his new trap.

“I’ll show him ‘won’t touch you once for the whole night’,” mutters Jaskier under his breath, furious for allowing himself to be belittled so easily by the man he loves. “Just because I’m a bard doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be allowed to fight. Maybe if he showed me how to then I wouldn’t have to cut the tent into pieces.”

“I haven’t showed you how to fight because I don’t want you at a bigger risk of getting hurt. We’ve talked about this,” comes Geralt’s soft voice from the makeshift doorway, a sewing kit of some sort in his hand.

Jaskier sits on the edge of the bed, twiddling his thumbs, understanding the witcher’s reasons all too well. “You know I love when you fight for my honour, but… I don’t want to be completely useless for my whole life. I can’t exactly hurt anyone with one of my ballads.”

“It’s dangerous, but if you really want to learn, we can start slow. A few of the basics whenever there’s time. I understand the need to defend yourself, and I don’t want to see you gone because I wouldn’t let you learn the skills to keep you alive,” sighs Geralt, taking Jaskier’s hand in his. “I’d never forgive myself for doing that to you.”

“I love you, Geralt, and you could never be at fault for something like that. I know you would do everything in your power to protect me, and I’d come back to haunt you if you ever tried to blame yourself.” They kiss, the conversation they’d been avoiding for quite some time having brought them closer together. This often happens, both of them being quite proud individuals, but they manage to talk things through in the end anyway.

Geralt stands up even though Jaskier tries to keep him to himself with a lingering kiss, but there’s a certain sewing kit that needs to be used to fix a certain hole in a certain tent. The bard watches his love doing his best to avoid being pricked by a needle thinner than his patience, although it ends with him completely exasperated and giving up.

“Here. Let me,” says Jaskier, making his way over to a rather frustrated Geralt.

His nimble fingers trained from a young age work the material perfectly, and the witcher can’t believe he’s only just discovering this talent of his. “I can tell you’re wondering. Short story is I was raised by spinsters, and the long one… Well, I’ll tell you another time.”

He stands and leans into Geralt’s body. The witcher says, “It’ll do for now, but there will still be quite a draft. We’ll fix it properly when we get to Vergen.”

While Geralt gets undressed, Jaskier lights some candles around the room before finally ending up under the covers, this time his movements unrestricted. Despite the warm, rainy night, the draft is pushing its limits, almost becoming an entire breeze. It’s not exactly a pleasant sensation, so when Geralt joins him, the bard immediately latches on to what he believes must be self-heating muscles.

“Look at that. I’ve got a fungus growing on me,” chuckles Geralt, but Jaskier just buries his head in the crook of his neck and closes his eyes in an attempt to get some sleep. “Do you want me to stroke your back?”

The attempt of a nod answers Geralt’s question and he moves his broad and blistered hand up and down his back, warming and soothing him all at once. The draft slowly slips from their minds, the company they’re experiencing causing them to be concerned with nothing else than each other. It’s a rare moment where it’s just the two of them, the rest of the world a blur.

“Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

“Yennefer has been teaching me in secret.”

The witcher grunts heavily and Jaskier hides further in his neck. “I know. You two aren’t very good at keeping secrets. I’m not that angry.”

“What do you mean by ‘not _that_ angry’?”

He sighs, pulling Jaskier out into the dim lighting of the room, looking him in the eyes. “I mean I’ll get over it. I just wish you would have told me earlier.” Jaskier pushes his lips into Geralt’s with extreme force. “And I wish you would stop distracting me.”

“Or what?”

“Oh, I suppose not much… _Jules.”_

The mood shifts as the bard’s pupils shift too, widening more than they already have. He knows Geralt is toying with him, putting him in a position where he can only melt under his touch and let himself be moulded into whatever the witcher wants him to be moulded into. He used to resist, or at least when they played this game at first, but now that all seems pointless, less fun, even. To think, all it is, is a different nickname for Julian, but it holds more meaning to him than Jaskier ever did.

The bed doesn’t creak anymore – strengthened by a mixture of spells and charms – as they trace scars and veins for the millionth time, stroking skin on fire from the inside, electricity made up from passion coursing in their blood.

“Jules, Jules, Jules. Funny how powerful just one word can be on you. Maybe I’ll find another one soon,” whispers Geralt, fingers raking through the curls and waves on Jaskier’s head, soft and sharp. “Any suggestions?”

No intelligible words escape him, just incoherent groans as he holds tightly onto the man on top of him. With a foggy mind, it’s hard to piece any sort of letters and words together, but he just manages to form a sentence. “If you don’t start fucking me, I’m going to start doing more things without your permission.”

Time doesn’t dare stop, it only speeds up and slows down at the same time, pulling them into a haze where nothing makes sense beyond what they’re feeling and what they’re doing. To live in this haze is a dream of theirs, but it is always torn from them just when they’re about to grasp it, a punch in the gut after a most wonderful rendezvous.

Tonight, they’re taking their time. They’re focused on drawing out every thrust, taking in what the other has to offer, limitless and weightless. They know this feeling well, they’ve been lost in it so many times before, but every time they experience it, it somehow feels like the first time, like all the stories their bodies are telling are ones they’ve never heard before. They don’t mean to forget; it just happens on its own.

 _Now, now, now_ is the only thought they have floating in their minds, desperate to be as close as possible, warm together despite the cold. Nothing beyond the bed is important, just the way nothing is off limits to the other.

“ _Jules_.”

“Your softness ruins me, Geralt,” grunts the bard. “ _Ruin me_.”

Jules, Jules, Jules.

Jules.

Jules…

_Jules._

Jules!

Their grasp is tight, afraid something will come and pull them away from this moment, this haze that always escapes them.

It’s a deadly stormy night outside, but here, indoors, they have fled from anything that may hurt them, and they have avoided demons and ghouls and nightmares, safe in each other’s arms, nestled close together, cuddling for warmth, living in the atmosphere of the effect of a simple nickname, tired but full of emotion, hearts pounding and minds drifting, breathing in the afterglow of yet another rendezvous, undoubtedly in love with their flaws and imperfections, seeing pink.

**Author's Note:**

> [my ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/erissapphic)


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